Up is steep,
slick with fallen leaves
which hide the way,
even though
i ought to know
the way, having come
here at least fifty
times in these
fifty years of mine.
at the footbridge i
veer left, leave
the new trail,
which winds
around the hill
to ascend
the ridgespine softly,
and opt instead
for the old
path, steeper yet,
a scramble over,
through, and
also in between
the age worn
sedimentary
sandstone
cliffs, soft round
rocks with embedded
pebbles, easy to grip,
a pleasure to climb.
on the final ascent,
i smell fire.
on top i find
a picnic
at the lookout.
blankets spread
and baskets stuffed
with supper, low music
from a cellphone
sounds as from
a foreign scale,
a small contained
campfire flames,
and something i
have never seen
in all my jaunts
up Pilot Knob,
an exquisitely
detailed, three tiered
hookah made of glass,
puffed on casually
by a young man
gazing west
at the flat expanse.
there are eight of them.
young women and men.
they cease a
conversation in
a tongue i cannot place,
shuffle aside to
make a space,
and welcome me
on the narrow outcrop
as their guest.
“First time to see?”
i ask,
“Once before, but
not at sunset,”
one of the young men speaks,
“Oh it looks tonight to be a treat,”
i say, sizing up
the glorious quality
of light,
“I consider this the best
place for sunset in the state.”
“You lived here long?”
he asks.
i smile and realize
i’ve a chance to share,
“I’ve lived here all my life.
Look there, far distant,
just to the left. Those small stubs
on the horizon line are buildings
downtown Lexington.”
an excited rush
in their first language
alerts me that
this is news to them.
“We live there at the
university, we are new
students,” he explains,
then a slight pause,
“we’re from Iran,”
“Welcome to Kentucky!”
i extend my hand.
“A lot of people think Iran is
bad but it’s our government,”
a young woman of
the group stands to qualify,
but i am quick again
to counter, and again
i smile,
“Let’s not offer up
apologies or even
try to ponder now
your government or mine.
We’re just common creatures
come to share this evening air.
The sun sets in fifteen minutes.
So we’ve met here just in time.”
i offer, then, to take their
group photo. enthusiastic,
they say please.
after they scurry to
patrol their site,
they arrange as
couples, the
young women
posed in front with
their beaus behind,
a proud group
beaming hope
and life, a lovely
composition set
before the
Kentucky
sky.
as the colors
deepen gold,
then purple, also rose,
the day grown old,
one of them mentions
Daniel Boone,
of whom they’ve heard,
but didn’t know,
that from this very
spot the famous
longhunter was shown,
less than three
hundred years ago,
by a Shawnee guide;
for the first time,
a white man saw
that level western
plain spread wide.
the gentle bluegrass
undulating toward
the Mississippi
and Ohio,
an inspiring view for us now,
to relax and recline,
but then, to Boone,
how to his speculative eye,
this vista was
also a triumph
and a prize.
here was where
the white man
made his final
passage through
the otherwise
impenetrable
Appalachians.
from here
westward expansion
soon would boom,
the overcrowding colonies
granted “unlimited” room.
i tell them how i
was taught in school
that the “Indians”
used Kentucky only
as a hunting ground,
but that in fact,
just in the fields
below us,
as late as 1754,
Eskippakithiki
was a thriving native town,
not only of Shawnee,
but of a mix of tribes from up
and down the Eastern coast,
multicultural, multilingual,
now lost.
“where over there,” i point
far below at the mountain
parkway, “was at least
a state historic plaque,
last year a road crew
carved a new exit ramp
and didn’t bother
to put the marker back.
all that’s left is just
the metal post.”
one of my new friends
mutters a term she’s learned
in her US history class,
i sigh and give a
a solemn nod to agree.
yes, indeed, unfortunately
my ancestors called it
all their God given right,
their “manifest destiny”
this entire continent,
the pilgrims’ plight.
a compensation for
suffering their ancestors
did endure.
this gift of a new world
to subdue.
in silence now
we watch
the last bit of the
fire ball sink.
i tell them from experience,
”twelve minutes
is the time we have,
to enjoy the changing colors
in these cotton clouds,
if we wait any longer
we’ll need to use
our lamps
to get down.”
they agree to join my game,
and in the fading autumn dusk
we descend as a group,
without lights.
our eyes adjust.
we take the new trail,
not so steep.
the crunch beneath
our feet is the
conversation
we keep.
those same leaves
that earlier obscured
the path, now serve
surprisingly to show the way,
like a blanket they settle
in the shallow well-worn
rut and reflect
the night, like
a guiding ribbon,
they lead us
footfall
after
footfall
down along
the edge of
sight.
